I scream.
A blood-curdling scream that tears through my throat,
leaving it red, raw—
stripped.
It empties my lungs
until I’m lightheaded,
breathless.
There are no tears.
I do it again.
I scream.
The echo strains my neck,
leaves a ringing trail inside my skull,
an exhaustion settling—
heavy—across my shoulders.
I’m in the front seat of my car,
gripping the steering wheel.
Knuckles white.
Nails carving into leather.
I want to spit.
To hurl—
objects, my body, anything.
I want to kick, tear, bite,
destroy, rip, break.
I hate this fucking feeling.
I scream again—
louder, longer.
My voice shakes,
then drops—
darker, deeper—
pulled from some lower cavern in me
that both ignites
and terrifies.
I want to strike.
Punch.
Lash out.
I grind my teeth,
pull my hair—
breathing fire into the world.
I am untethered.
Unhinged.
Dissatisfied.
Hollow.
Rage foams at my mouth—
loud, feral, alive.
I am furious and disappointed,
annoyed and burning.
I am not holding it.
I am it.
—
And underneath it—
something quieter
I refuse to feel
while my body is on fire.
A stillness
that feels like nothing is happening
like I am speaking
and not being heard
like I am loving
and it is not landing
like I am reaching
and there is nowhere to go
I do not know
how to be still
when I want to be met
I do not know
how to love
without leaning in
So I push
and soften
and try again
and again
and again—
until it breaks inside me
and I am back here
screaming
into a space
that does not move
—
There are still no tears.
Only the hollow echo
of trying
and never arriving.
